Darius, page 2
Fritz had come down to report she was safely on the premises as soon as he’d gotten home, but given that the gracious Federal mansion had a detached garage, there had been no way to go see the car until the sun was under the horizon. That it was spring in upstate New York meant there had been another forever-wait, and Darius had wished, even though the nicer weather was more enjoyable, that the calendar had been closer to December 21.
Hell, in winter, he could have gone to the dealership himself.
And then it was time.
Bursting out of the back door, he had all but skipped across the asphalt court. Fritz had deliberately closed up the garage bay, and Darius had twitched through the final thirty seconds as his butler had scooted in and hit the opener.
The panels rising and revealing the BMW, inch by inch, had been like opening a present, and there had been no disappointment. The bronze metallic paint had gleamed, and those four headlights had stared back at him as if the thing were alive. Initial shock and awe over, Darius had prowled around the sedan, trailing fingertips on the cool steel, on the smooth glass, on the hood, the roof, the boot.
And it drove like a dream.
Which was why a vampire like him, who could dematerialize anywhere he wanted, chose to take the long way home sometimes…
As he passed through a part of town congested by newly constructed developments of mid-market apartment buildings, he turned up the volume on the stereo so Supertramp could tell him more about lonely days and lonely nights. He didn’t need the primer. Sure, he had no wife at home, but he did feel like a piece of furniture in his own life: When he was fighting lessers, those pale, soulless killers who hunted vampires, he was as animated as they came; inside of himself, though, he had become an inanimate object. He’d noticed this fossilization about a year ago, and ever since then, he’d been trying to figure out exactly what his problem was. A rereading of his diaries, whereupon he’d probed the fact patterns of his life as if he were a disinterested third party instead of the main character, had yielded nothing of note.
And endless, contemporaneously penned entries detailing the fact that he was rereading his diaries hadn’t gotten him any further.
Then again, maybe it was because he already knew what ailed him and he just didn’t want to look at all that he couldn’t see ever changing.
His cycles of days and nights were always the same: Fighting. Eating. Sleeping. Feeding in a chaste way from a Chosen. Doing it again. And again. And again. As the pinwheel of time continued to spin, and humans went in and out of different fashions, fads, and presidents, he was the trudging same. Not even the noble purpose of his existence—saving the vampire race from the Lessening Society and protecting the King who refused to lead—was enough to relieve the rote detachment that blanked him like anesthesia.
And this was why he not only needed a nice new car, but had to drive the thing.
Running his hand over the top of the steering wheel, he breathed in deep. He didn’t require a vampire nose to appreciate the rich perfume of hand-tooled leather, that delicious new-car smell—
As he rounded a turn in the road, the movement came at him from the left, the streak the kind of thing that his peripheral vision caught and his hair-trigger instincts reacted to without any conscious thought on his part. In quick coordination, he punched the brake pedal and yanked the wheel to the right. The tires did their best to find purchase, squealing in their slow-down efforts, but there was too much mass, too much acceleration. A sickening jolt of impact registered, and then the BMW veered off the four-lane road and jumped the curb.
The tree in his headlights was enormous.
The biggest arboreal anything he had ever seen.
Then again, when you were about to crash your brand-new BMW, that did lend a certain distortion to things—
Boom!
Like a bomb going off, the impact was loud and had shock waves. As his ears rang, he was thrown forward and the steering wheel punched back, defending its territory with the stiff arm of its column. A flop of the head later and he was close as his own nose to the windshield before a boomerang effect snapped him back into his seat.
At which point he smelled gas, heard hissing, and started cursing.
As his eyes focused, he found that the trunk of the maple was just about centered between those two sets of headlights, like the blue-and-white hood ornament was a target. And what do you know, that badge was now halfway up into the engine block.
With a deflation characteristic of people who find themselves in the crosshairs of chaos theory, he opened his door. The damage had not extended back far enough to affect its release, hinges, or panel, and glancing into the interior as he got out, he closed his lids against how pristine everything remained in the cockpit, the dash and seating still so fresh and new. When he was ready, he turned to—
The fact that mid-pivot he caught sight of the unused seat belt seemed like a tap on the shoulder from Fate, a little reminder that this time—this time—he’d gotten away with it, but in the next accident, his head was going right through that safety glass.
Maybe he should buckle up in the future—
Freezing in his tracks, he caught the scent of fresh blood, and as he ripped his head around, he saw the human woman lying in the center of the four-lane street on the yellow line. She was tucked into a ball, crumpled as if by a fist, and he had an instant impression of a blue skirt that was the color of a morning glory, and a white blouse that was untucked. A red sweater was tied around her waist. The shoes were brown with no heels. No stockings.
She wasn’t moving.
Oh, God, he’d hit someone. That was what the jolt had been.
Darius bolted across the two lanes he’d been traveling on. As he knelt down, he touched her shoulder. “Madam?”
No response. Then again, he’d felt the impact even inside the car, had heard the terrible sound.
“Madam, I’m going to roll you over.”
With gentle hands, he unfurled her tight contraction, and as she flopped half onto her back, he didn’t like the way her head was so loose on the top of her spine. The moan was good, though. It meant she was alive.
“We need to get you medical treatment.” He glanced back to his car, which turned out to be at the tree line of a park-like area. “And I have no transport to offer—”
“Help…” she whispered. “He’s going to hurt me…”
A cold rush hit Darius on the crown of his head, and he bared his fangs. “What did you say?”
When she just mumbled, he looked across the other two lanes. A short-stack, inter-connected collection of apartment buildings was set back from the street on a rise, with a stretch of grass separating them from the road. There were lights on inside almost all of the units, but no one was out on any of the balconies, and there were privacy blinds drawn across every window—
Another flash of movement.
In the breezeway of one of the building blocks, a figure ran out of the shadows—and then jumped back into the darkness as if they didn’t want to be seen. Given the shape, it was clearly a male, and Darius flared his nostrils, scenting the air.
“Please, don’t let him get me,” the woman said in a reedy voice. “He’s going to kill me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Patricia Wurster didn’t like her name. Had never liked it. Not the first part, especially if it was shortened to the dreaded Patty, and not the second part, especially when she’d been in elementary school and gotten called The Worst. The middle wasn’t all that bad, though—
“Anne… my name is Anne.”
As she spoke hoarsely, she was responding to a question directed to her, but she couldn’t figure out why she was introducing herself… or to who? Opening her eyes, she got no clues because everything was dark—and yet she wasn’t alone. Someone was holding her—
“Nice to meet you, Anne.”
The voice was deep, a man’s, and she instantly loved the sound of whoever it was. The syllables were so low and rolling, and that accent was certainly European, although she couldn’t quite place it to a specific country…
Where was she? As the thought occurred, she decided she was in a bed, but not her own. This mattress was too hard and too small. And while she tried to figure out why she was so cramped, she wished the man would ask her another question because she preferred him talking to the weird delirium she was in. Maybe he could go the what’s-your-sign route. Or want to know her height and weight, like she was at the doctor’s. How about a quick algebra equation—
Bump!
The bed under her hit something, and the jostling that came with the impact rattled every bone in her body. As pain set up shop in little campfires that burned in her legs, her arms, and one shoulder in particular, she wondered why a mattress would hit a speed bump—wait, what was that subtle whirring in the background?
“I’m in a car,” she mumbled.
“Yes,” replied that male voice. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Annnnnd that was when it all came back. In a series of flash card images, like her memory was dealing out the fact pattern of the evening on a tabletop, she remembered everything—
Anne went to sit up in a rush, but all kinds of things stopped her: those little flames flaring into bonfires, a cramped backseat… and a heavy but kind hand urging her to lie down again.
“We’re almost there—”
“I have to go—”
Her words were cut off as panic took over, and she went on a messy scramble, shoving at whatever came into range—
“Fuck!” came a high-pitched squeak.
As she shrank away, the driver of whatever car she was in cranked around the headrest. Talk about a taxi driver. He was at once balding and in need of a haircut, the frizzy stripe at ear level and the patch-island at the top totally out of control. And he was not happy. His face was fleshy and round as a basketball, and his expression was the kind that usually went along with a flare-up of gout.
“Everybody okay back there?” he asked in an annoyed Jersey accent. “I’m not drivin’ fast enough for ya?”
What was that guy from Taxi doing driving her anywhere—
“I’m not Danny frickin’ DeVito. Jesus.”
Guess she’d spoken that out loud.
The guy snapped his head forward. “Why the hell does everybody say that? I’m better-lookin’ than…”
As he worked out his ego problems in the front seat, Anne glanced over… at… the…
All of her thoughts stopped, and not like a train that gradually slowed down: Her cognition slammed into a brick wall. Talk about better-looking than. The man sitting on the other side of the bench seat was worthy of the cover on a Johanna Lindsey novel. Dressed in black clothes, with a broad chest and shoulders, his body seemed to fill the whole car, and his face transfixed her. Classically handsome, with dark hair that was trimmed tightly, he would have drawn anybody’s eyes.
But he was not any happier than the driver, and the reason was obvious. He had both palms pressed into his crotch, and a wince carved into his striking features—and just as putting your hands up to your throat meant you were choking in any language, he was making the universal signal for holy-hell-you-just-nailed-me-in-the-nuts.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
She reached out, but wasn’t sure where to touch him. And boy, that fuzzy feeling in her head was totally gone now.
Nothing like corking a stranger in the hey-nannies to perk a girl up—
“You’re sorry,” the driver snapped. “I’m sorry I got two strangers in my backseat, no frickin’ clue why I’m going to the hospital, and a headache like I been on a bender to the Poconos.”
Anne lowered her voice. “I really am sorry.”
The man with the proverbial privacy issues opened his eyes. As the peachy glow from a sodium streetlight flared through the windows, his irises were a resonant blue, like a clear autumn sky. He also had dark lashes that were long and brows that she was willing to bet had a natural arch when they weren’t in a grimace.
“It’s okay,” he grunted with his accent. “Now I can sing the Leo Sayer parts.”
His smile wasn’t a big one, but the lift to his lips was endearing, taking all that manly-man and giving it a hint of the boy he had once been.
“What happened—” She glanced around. “I mean, what’s happening?”
“You don’t remember?” He rearranged himself on the seat and swiveled his hips a little, like he was trying to assess whether things were still attached. “You were hit by a car—”
All at once, the flood of memories returned again and the pain in her body exploded, as if her recollection was a second impact.
“We’re almost to the emergency room,” the man next to her said.
“And then I’m out,” Danny DeVito-esque announced from up front. “I don’t know how in the hell I got involved in—Jesus, this headache. Either one a’ ya moochers gotta aspirin?”
Anne focused on those beautiful blue eyes. “You were driving the BMW. I saw through the windshield right before I was hit… it was you.”
The man nodded. “I didn’t see you coming. And when I finally did, I swerved but it was too late.”
Searching his face, she wondered what she’d said to him at the scene. Whether she’d told him why she’d been running across the road.
“I can’t go to the hospital,” she said quietly.
“Does he work there?”
She closed her eyes and tried on some denials. Then lost what little energy she had for putting up a brave front. “No, but he has my purse, so I have no money on me.”
“I’ll cover the costs of your care.”
“No, you won’t—”
“You need to be checked out. And the accident was my fault.”
“It was not. I bolted into the street in the dark.” She pounded on her sternum with what was, admittedly, a weak fist. “Besides, I’m breathing and I have a heartbeat. The rest I can walk off—”
“Look, lady,” the driver cut in as he glared into the rearview, “you’re gettin’ out at the hospital. I ain’t goin’ this way because I wanna. What ya do once ya there, I don’t give a crap, but that’s where ya road ends.”
On that note, there wasn’t any more conversation. Then again, they didn’t have much farther to go. St. Francis Hospital appeared on the right, its blocky building surrounded by a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree parking lot. The ER was around to the far side, and Not-Danny DeVito cut off a station wagon to get onto the lane that went right up to its covered entrance.
“Now get outta my car,” he said as he hit the brakes.
Anne opened her mouth to argue, but not with him. Her problem was with her fellow backseater. Here was not the place, however—not that any debate was going to go much better out on the curb, but at least she could hope for a less hostile peanut gallery there.
Reaching for the door handle, she popped the thing and extended a bare foot. With a frown, she tried to remember…
“I’m missing a shoe.”
“Let’s just get you looked at.” The man next to her opened his side. “We’ll worry about shoes afterward.”
Before she could think of a response, he was standing in front of her and offering his hand. When she merely stared at his palm, the driver chimed in.
“Jesus, just get outta my car. Let him help ya already.”
“I don’t need to be here,” she muttered as she grabbed ahold of what was being put forward.
Anne was pulled out gently—and as she wobbled and fought another tide of pain, she thought, wow, the man was tall. And then, as he bent down to give some money to the grumbling Samaritan, she couldn’t stop her eyes from a quick review of his body.
Which pretty much proved there was no brain damage, right? If she was busy checking out the attributes of a perfect stranger, she had to be—
Okay. Well. The bottom half of him was just as good as the upper half, his thighs stretching the fabric of his black pants, his posterior region filling out the seat of those—
Anne snapped back to attention as the car she’d been rescued in took off with a squeal of rubber.
“I’m just going to get a taxi now,” she said as the man turned to her. “A real one, that is.”
“I thought you had no money.”
“At home, I have an emergency twenty tucked into my mother’s Fannie Farmer Cookbook.”
He blinked. Like he’d never heard of such a thing. Or maybe cookbooks in general.
Hard to imagine the confusion was about currency.
“Come on.” The man squeezed her hand and tucked her arm through his. “This won’t take any time at all—”
“It’s an emergency room. We’re going to be here forever. And I don’t—”
He looked into her eyes so deeply that everything stopped for her, including whatever argument she’d been making. As well as her lungs. And definitely her heart.
“Twenty minutes ago,” he said, “I had to pick you up from the middle of the road and put you in that backseat. I bet you don’t remember much of the trip here, and yes, I realize you don’t want me to pay for anything, but I cannot live with myself if I’ve left you on the side of the road to die.”
“You didn’t leave me and I’m not dying.”
“If I don’t get you through those revolving doors and into the hands of a doctor, you’re just going to go home. So it’s constructive abandonment.”
“I won’t go home, I promise.”
“You’re not a good liar.”
“Yes, I am.” As his left eyebrow arched, she cursed. “I mean, I’m not lying.”
“So where else will you find a doctor this time of night.”
As a long, tense moment gouged in between them, Anne was vaguely aware of people coming out of the ER’s entrance. Going in the entrance. Coming out. Going in. Like the universe was on his side and trying to provide her with a visual demonstration of how the place worked.
